When you ask “Who am I?” — as we all inevitably do at some point(s) in our lives — make sure you’re putting your question to the right person.

Or should I say persons.

You yourself probably aren’t the best guy/gal to ask. You certainly shouldn’t be the only one, that’s for sure.

I developed a working theory during my days as a career counselor that has proven to be profoundly true in my own life and in the lives of virtually everyone I care about. It goes like this:

You can’t fully see who you really are.

I mean this little truism as a motivational tool, not as an insult. And I mean it quite literally as well as figuratively. For it has to do with blindness.

As I write this, I am 52 years old. I’ve been intrigued with words my entire existence. Like many introverts, I essentially lived at the public library growing up, reading constantly then and ever since. Written expression fascinates me. Always has, always will.

When I write — especially about issues that really matter to me personally, audience or no audience — I routinely experience that sublime sensation referred to as flow, or The Zone in sports terms. I lose track of time and space. I’m completely absorbed. My efforts are effortless. I become Writer — and nothing else.

You might think, given this confident description with its flowery, upbeat language, that I know myself very well. But the truth is that I am only just now beginning to know myself.

Why? Because “you can’t fully see who you really are.” And so for more than five decades now, I haven’t fully seen who I really am. I’ve been blind, at least partially.

“What do you do?” I’ve been asked repeatedly throughout my adult life. I’ve always equated the question with “Who are you?” My answers have varied through the years, beginning with:

• “I’m a sports reporter.”
• “I work at a newsletter publishing company.”
• “I’m training to become a career counselor.”
• “I am a career counselor.”

In more recent years, my responses to the question have ventured closer to the real truth:

• “I write for career web site Monster.com.”
• “I’m a freelance journalist.”
• “I publish a newsletter.”
• “I’m an author; I write nonfiction books.”

But it is only now, after (finally) questioning and listening to not myself but the people in my life who really know me, that I see — and acknowledge and fully accept — what’s been in front of me all along:

I’m a writer.

We are all blind to our own gifts because those gifts come so easily and naturally to us that, well, they can’t possibly be “real” gifts!

We are all blind as well to our own essences — our own respective cores, our own purposes for being on the planet — just as we’re all blind to seeing the backs of our own heads.

It’s possible to see what we want and need to see, but we need mirrors. We need people in our lives who care about us enough to reflect back what should be obvious to us, but too often isn’t.

It is then up to each of us to not only listen to what these trusted souls are telling us, but to hear it.

And then take it to heart.

And then act on it.

Who am I? Many things — but I’m a writer in my soul of souls. I only know that because I’ve begun to ask the question differently — namely, of different people instead of only myself.

Who are you?

Who can you ask?

And will you listen to the answers — then act on them?

Most every year, my lovely wife, Adrianne, asks me to accompany her to the downtown beer tent that is one of the main attractions of “Boxcar Days,” her hometown of Tracy, Minnesota’s annual Labor Day Weekend celebration of railroads and trains.

The beer tent is where everyone over the age of 21 gathers to visit with old friends, perhaps have a beer or two, listen to karaoke, maybe even dance a little. It’s easily the biggest draw of the celebration.

And the loudest.

Adrianne, like me, is an introvert, though she generally seems more outgoing than I am. So while I’m never exactly shocked that she wants to go to the beer tent — and I’m ultimately happy to go both with her and for her, especially so she can see her high school friends and vice versa — the inconvenient truth is that my very first, gut-level reaction to her suggestion that we attend is always: “Ugh.”

I have my theories as to why.

For starters, I think I have a touch of social anxiety disorder in certain situations. I’m also not much into beer drinking, though I’ll have my one from time to time.

The real story, though, is something that marketing writer Kate Finley touched on a few years back in her superb Fast Company article entitled “How Introverts Can Network Without Losing Their Minds.” There, in describing the key distinction between introversion and shyness, she wrote:

“… [A] lack of interest in socializing (introversion) is clearly different than fearing it (shyness).”

As I wrote in a comment to Finley’s piece, I don’t have a “lack of interest in socializing,” necessarily. Rather, I tend to have a lack of interest in the typical ways OF socializing. As I noted in my response:

A one-on-one, quiet conversation with someone about a topic that really matters? Count me in — let’s socialize! Glad-handing and back-patting through herds of shouting people at conferences and parties? Not so much.

Interestingly — and this happens to me quite often in similar situations — I always end up having a nice time with Adrianne at the beer tent. (It’s especially gratifying to see her seemingly mild-mannered high school friend get up on the karaoke stage year after year and belt out tunes like Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell.”) There’s always something to be said for pushing beyond (or being nudged beyond) one’s comfort zone.

But there’s also something to be said for diversity when it comes to socializing approaches. And socializing one on one — in a peaceful coffee shop, perhaps — is what I’ll always pick if given the choice.

It’s still socializing.